By Jim Hagarty
2018
My favourite work gloves and I go everywhere together. If I am outside, summer, fall, winter, spring, my best gloves from my assortment of rag-tag hand coverers, are on my hands. They are red and grey and the winter lining in them is so soft. I realized how close we are, gloves and man, tonight more than ever. I drove downtown, went up this street and down the next, and finally stopped at a store to buy some milk. I got out of the car and as I walked by it, there, on the trunk were my trusty gloves. I am so glad I found them because if they had blown off somewhere as I drove along, I would have spent the rest of my life looking for them. And, oddly, I suppose, I wouldn’t have considered that search a waste of time.
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Author: Jim Hagarty
I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
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